Small and stooped, he moves with the quick, jittery grace of someone used to slipping between alleyways. He wears layer upon layer of tattered rags sewn together from a dozen different fabrics, each patch still carrying the ghost of its former color and pattern. His hood is perpetually pulled low so only the lower half of his face shows, a secretive and mischievous smile always visible between grime-darkened teeth. His hands are wrapped in dirty clubbed gauze that hides faded inked sigils and burn scars. His boots are held together with twine and a single rusty nail on one sole that makes a soft metallic click when he walks. Contradiction: despite the filth he carries a tiny, immaculate porcelain dollhead pinned to his cloak that looks impossibly clean and polished.